Shafted
by MusicalLuna1
Summary: Only Shawn could injure himself whilst searching a cordoned off building with a faction of S.B.P.D. officers. Shameless Shawn whumpage.
1. Getting Perspective

**Story Notes:**

W00t. New story. XDDD Shameless whumpage of Shawn.

Happy reading!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Psych nor do I own any of the wonderfully adorable characters who inhabit the Psych world.

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

I feel like I should warn you guys. Don't worry if you feel like you came in in the middle of something at first--you did. Everything (well maybe not _everything_) will be explained. :)

* * *

Shawn's first problem was the throbbing pain in the crown of his skull.

His second problem was that he was in a ventilation shaft, and the only way out was up.

He could feel something warm and wet beneath the aching spot on his head. Looking upward, he tried to make out just what the vent he was lying in looked like, but he couldn't see much around his legs in the darkness.

Because the third problem, the problem he was most concerned with, was the fact that he was upside down, and the only thing he could see in the darkness were his knees.

The shaft was narrow and only his head and shoulders fit on the bottom. Everything else rose upward sharply, and when he relaxed his legs, they rested, kneecaps against the wall above his head. Unfortunately, relaxing them made breathing really difficult, so he had to extend them upward every so often (which was surprisingly difficult—his legs seemed to have been transfigured into jelly after the fall) to get a good deep breath of air. His right arm worked all right, but he couldn't really feel his left, and it was pinned between the side of the vent and his head, making it impossible to move.

He couldn't remember falling. He actually couldn't remember waking up either, so he wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten where he was. He didn't _think_ he had been unconscious for long, if at all, but he just couldn't remember.

What he did know was that his head hurt, and he could feel something wet puddling beneath it. Water, maybe? Or was it blood? Juice? Now that was just silly. Again, he was having a hard time being sure. It was hard to think.

How had he gotten here in the first place?

He remembered trailing after Lassie, being a general pain in the butt (his specialty) and he remembered everyone splitting up to look through the cordoned-off building for the bonds that had been stolen from a bank downtown. He even remembered sneaking away from his group to go snooping around in the ventilation shafts, which he had thought sounded brilliant _and_ fun. He remembered a lot of the journey, specific directions even, and then things got sort of muddled until he remembered, head stinging painfully and neck sore, looking up at his knees and thinking, "Well, _that_ doesn't seem right."

That helped him put it together. He must have fallen. The linear-thinking thing helped a lot.

He pushed his legs upward because it was getting hard to breathe again and his stomach twisted ominously. He took a quick breath and then let his legs come back down again doing his best to force the bile threatening to come up-and-out back down. He was not going to puke if he was going to be stuck like this.

The queasiness faded a little after a moment and he relaxed, taking a couple of careful breaths. He smelled blood. It was warm, metallic, and sickly sweet, and he had to clamp his free hand over his nose and mouth, swallowing hard to stem the new wave of nausea that washed over him.

He came so close that time that he could taste the acrid bile in his mouth. _Disgusting_.

When his stomach finally settled again enough from him to uncover his face, he breathed carefully and measuredly through barely parted lips. He disliked the faint taste of blood the air carried, but if he smelled it again…

Shuddering, he stretched out his legs, and took a few deep breaths, which, surprisingly, helped clear his head. He was just beginning to relower his legs when his phone began ringing, the shrill, tinny sound echoing off of the metal and piercing his head like needles. Before he could grab it though—his arms felt Jell-O-y too—it vibrated itself out of his pocket and landed with a thunk right between his eyes.

He cursed loudly, his hand groping awkwardly for the phone which had fallen beside his head. Finally, he got a hold of it and he flipped it open, holding it as near to his ear as he could manage. "Hello?"

"Where the hell are you, Shawn?"

Gus sounded peeved. Shawn couldn't quite wrap his mind around why.

"I'm in a ventilation shaft."

"Okay, I'm going to meet you—" Gus stopped and then in a quiet, deadly tone said, "Excuse me?"

"Okay. You're excused." 'Was that right?' he wondered dimly.

"Shawn! This isn't funny! What are you doing in a ventilation shaft?!"

Shawn's head began to hurt. He closed his eyes, massaging his temple and tried to ignore the weird feeling of the liquid under his head creeping along his neck. That only made it harder to think. Wait. "What are we talking about?"

Now Gus sounded really cheesed off. "Stop avoiding the subject, Shawn! What are you doing in the ventilation shafts?"

"Ohhh," Shawn said, and everything clicked back into place. "Exploring, duh."

"You've been gone for twenty minutes Shawn!" he exclaimed.

Shawn glanced at his watch in the dim blue light his phone provided and remembered glimpsing it as he climbed into the vents. "Thirty-seven, actually," he corrected helpfully.

Gus started breathing in and out, slowly and evenly and Shawn smiled. He was _really_ frustrated.

"Shawn, I want you out of there in five minutes," he finally said, "Or I'll—"

"Uh…that's going to be a problem."

He suddenly sounded tired. "Why, Shawn?"

"I'm stuck."

The heavy, even breathing started again and then faded away and Shawn's eyebrows contracted. "Gus?"

The voice that answered was not Gus' and sounded even less pleased, if that were possible.

"Spencer!" Lassiter barked, "In the name of all that is honorable and just in this world, I am going to _kill_ you!"

"Lassie!" he said, and grinned. He wasn't entirely sure how or why he was talking to Lassiter now, but he didn't really care.

"Spencer, I swear, I'm going to—"

"You have to find me first," he said cheekily and smirked when Lassiter growled.

"This isn't 'playtime', you idiot! We're working a case while you're off screwing around and getting stuck in ventilation shafts! I have half a mind to just leave you wherever the hell you are!"

The pain radiating from his head and shoulders and the tingly feeling starting to take over his legs sobered him considerably. "I would really appreciate it if that wasn't the course of action you took, Lassie," he said. "I…may have fallen to where I am now."

"Oh, for pity's sake," he muttered. "Are you injured?"

Shawn's head attempted to sway, out of habit, and pain spiked up his neck. "Define 'injured'," he mumbled and could practically _see_ Lassiter kneading his forehead, teeth gritted.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, voice tight.

Shawn finally answered him straight. "Yes."

"Are you bleeding?"

"Might be."

"Is anything broken?"

"I…don't think so?"

Lassiter heaved a long-suffering sigh and then said, "So where the hell are you _exactly_, Spencer?"

Shawn laughed weakly. Oh, he wouldn't like this…

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

LOLZ. Yeah. It doesn't really have a plot. But who needs a plot when you've got whumpage? SRSLY.

Bottom of Form


	2. Finding Direction

Lassiter ranted furiously for five straight minutes after Shawn confessed that he didn't know where he was, and he would have continued ranting for another five if Shawn hadn't raised his voice and said, "I can tell you how I got here though!"

"What?" he snapped. "You don't know where you are, but you can tell me how you got there?"

"Well, sort of," Shawn said. "I can tell you up to a certain point. I…can't remember the last bit though," he admitted reluctantly.

"You can't _remember?_ All right, is this injury of yours on your head?"

"…define 'head'."

Lassiter growled. "Great, so you're trapped in a ventilation shaft and concussed. Spencer, you're a frickin' piece of work, you know that?"

"Thank you!"

"Not a compliment," he snapped. "Now hold on. I have to talk to Mr. Guster."

Shawn wondered briefly what it was he was supposed to hold on to.

Lassiter pressed the cell phone to his chest and turned to Gus, who looked worried. "He has a _concussion?_"

"Well I'm no doctor," Lassiter said, "but he said he hit his head, he's _probably_ bleeding, and that he couldn't remember falling or what came before it. The logical conclusion is concussion."

Gus closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, taking a deep breath before nodding and reopening his eyes. "Okay, let me talk to him."

Lassiter nodded and handed the phone to Gus, turning away as he lifted it to his ear. Gus was just opening his mouth to say Shawn's name when Lassiter turned back, a hand raised, and said, "He's probably going to be confused. Try not to make too many leaps while you're talking, or you'll lose him."

"Okay, thanks," he said and Lassiter nodded, turning and calling O'Hara's name as he strode off.

Guilt gnawed at Gus' insides as he brought the phone to his ear. Concussion explained why their previous conversation had felt so weird. It bothered him that he hadn't known something was wrong. He should know these things after so long. "Shawn?" he said.

"Gus? What happened to Lassie?"

Gus' concern flared along with his anger. Shawn was always doing stupid things like this. "What were you thinking, Shawn?" he demanded, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

"Thinking when?" Shawn asked bewilderedly.

Gus grit his teeth and closed his eyes. _Damn_. He had already jumped tracks and he hadn't even been talking to him for two minutes. "Never mind," he muttered. "How are you feeling?"

* * *

O'Hara looked up from her notepad as Lassiter approached. "What's going on?" she asked curiously.

Lassiter sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Spencer wandered off in the ventilation system and now he's stuck somewhere with a concussion."

"Oh my gosh," she said, "Is he okay?"

"He's talking to Mr. Guster, so I assume he's fine, at least for now. But we're going to have to find him and get him out."

"Yeah, of course. We're not finding much anyway," she said, shrugging and glancing around at the officers milling about around them.

"Figures," Lassiter muttered. "Spencer said he fell, so we're going to have to work out some way of pulling him out."

"It would be better to figure that out when we find him," Juliet said and Lassiter nodded.

"I think we can go through the vents to get him. He said he could tell us how he got there, up to a certain point."

Juliet looked surprised. "Wow. Really?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "That's what _he_ said. Who knows how much of that can be believed. All right, let's get everyone over here. I want to get at least three other guys to go in there with me so we can find the idiot and get this over with."

Juliet nodded. "I'm going."

He nodded curtly. "Fine." He stepped past her, his voice rising and he said, "All right people, listen up! As of right now, we're done looking for the bonds. Our little 'psychic' has gotten himself stuck in the ventilation system, so that's where we'll be turning our search." The officers began muttering amongst themselves, a few of them snickering and Lassiter raised his voice again. "He _is_ injured. Most likely suffering from a concussion, so let's find him and get him out before he suffers any irreparable damage to his 'gift.'

"Myself and Detective O'Hara will be leading the search. I need two volunteers who are willing to crawl around looking. Takers?"

Several officers raised their hands and Lassiter simply gestured to the two closest. "All right. Everybody else, I just want you to stay alert. Stay here and wait for further instructions, understood?" There was a wave of nodding and Lassiter added, "And for God's sake, nobody go off playing 'Spencer' either."

He finally turned back to O'Hara and the two chosen officers and said, "O'Hara, get Mr. Guster, please." She nodded and quickly moved off to find him. "Now look," he continued, glaring at the two rookies who had volunteered. "One idiot is more than enough, all right? You had better be careful."

They nodded determinedly. "Yes, sir."

O'Hara returned, Gus in tow and Lassiter said, "Spencer said he had directions for us. We're going to need them. O'Hara, I want tape. Four colors if you can find it."

"Okay." She took off again.

"Mr. Guster?" Lassiter said, looking pointedly at him.

Gus held up a hand. "…you're in the ventilation shaft, right, Shawn? I know it doesn't have anything to do with anything, just work with me, okay? Okay. Can you tell me how you got where you are? Mostly. Okay, tell me what you can." Lassiter held out a notepad and a pen and Gus began furiously scribbling down the directions. "Sixth floor in the ceiling, right, third left, first right, down, second left, third left, down again, right, left, kind of up, and… No, no, Shawn, that's great. That's plenty." He handed the directions to Lassiter and both looked dubious.

Juliet returned, looking triumphant, four rolls of colored tape in hand. "Got it." She looked at Gus and her face softened. "How is he?"

Gus held up a finger and said, "Shawn? I'm going to talk to Juliet for a second, so just wait a minute, will you? Yeah. Okay." He put a hand over the receiver and his face was concerned. "He's following pretty well, but every couple of minutes it sounds like he starts having trouble breathing and then he makes me wait while he does something. Then he comes back and he sounds fine again. I've never heard anything like it before."

Both Juliet and Lassiter looked concerned, though Lassiter masked it better. "Then let's get this dog and pony show on the road," Lassiter said gruffly. He took the tape from Juliet and tossed it at the others. "We're going to play Hansel and Gretel, boys and girls. Keep track of your progress once we split up." He pointed at the dark haired rookie. "You'll be heading up the back. Put down tape the whole way, understood?"

He nodded. "Yes, sir."

"All right, everybody—sixth floor!" he barked.


	3. Locating the Problem

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

Woo! I got an update request (or two, or three) so voila! Your wish is my command. ;D I'm glad you guys are enjoying this. :D

* * *

Lassiter barely fit inside the ventilation shaft.

He growled as his shirt caught on another screw and yanked it loose. From behind him, Juliet said, "Turn right up here and then left."

It figured Spencer would go crawling around in the tiniest space he could find. His knees ached and his shoulders barely fit between the walls. Usually being a taller, wide-shouldered man was to his advantage, but it was a pain in the ass right now. He was going to kill Spencer when they got him out.

"Okay," O'Hara said, pulling him out of his homicidal thoughts. "Next is the 'kind of up' and then we split up."

Lassiter adjusted the mini-flashlight clenched between his teeth and noticed the slight incline in the duct ahead of them that she had to be talking about. They shuffled awkwardly up it and then Lassiter paused, just before the first off-shoot. Plucking the flashlight from his mouth so he could control it better, he shone it down the duct. It reflected dimly off of a wall probably thirty feet away and he noted an opening just to the left of it, and then one more on the right and the one just to his left.

"Lassiter?" O'Hara said. "What are we doing?"

He rolled his eyes. What had happened to just waiting quietly for orders? "There are three openings. I'm going to go down the one at the end, you take the one in the middle, O'Hara, and you two take this one right here. I think there's another split down there," he said, trying to peer into the nearest shaft. He received three affirmatives and put the flashlight back in his mouth, heading for his opening. Behind him, the others split off, going their own separate ways.

* * *

"I—" Wheezy gasp. "—had nothing—" Another wheeze. "—to do with—" Shuddering gasp. "—Hang on."

Gus waited anxiously as the line went silent for a minute or two, then Shawn was back.

"I had nothing to do with you breaking your finger, Gus."

"Yeah, you did, Shawn," he retorted, but it was halfhearted. The weird breathing had gotten more frequent and it was starting to make _his_ breathing more difficult. It was hard, talking to Shawn, knowing there was something wrong, and not knowing exactly what it was. Shawn either wouldn't (more likely) or couldn't (less likely) tell him why he was breathing the way he was and it was seriously raising his blood pressure.

"I did not!" Shawn protested.

"Shawn, you're the one who shut the door on it!"

"Me? No way!" he scoffed.

Gus rolled his eyes. True to form. "You so di—"

"Hello?"

Gus frowned. Who was he talking to? He wasn't delusional now, was he? "Shawn? What's going on? Are you all right?"

* * *

Shawn stared upward between his legs at the swinging beam of light he could see in the opening at the top of the vent. "Hello?" he called uncertainly. He wasn't sure if he was just imagining it or if he was actually seeing it.

"Hello?" a voice called back. "Shawn Spencer?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. How many Shawns could there be trapped in these ventilation shafts, really? "Yeah," he said, and a young-looking sandy-haired head poked over the edge, along with a flashlight and he winced.

"Holy cow…" the officer muttered and as his eyes adjusted, Shawn could see the officer's own large, round eyes staring down at him.

He grinned. "Nice to see you too."

"Sorry, sir."

Another, smaller voice which he recognized, but couldn't place, said, "I'm hanging up now!" but he ignored it, finding it a lot easier to follow the voice that came with a face attached.

He grimaced and said, "Don't call me that. Shawn is good."

"Okay, Shawn," the officer conceded. He looked concerned. "How did you manage this?"

Shawn laughed, but it was with some difficulty and ended abruptly with a gasp. "You know, I honestly have no idea."

"Well we're going to—" The rookie broke off, looking up and Shawn barely caught a glimpse of the grimace on his face. "Detective…" he said slowly and Shawn wondered who he was talking to. "Well, we found him, sir…" he said reluctantly and Shawn was surprised to hear Lassiter answer. Where had he come from?

"_Finally_," his voice snapped.

"…You're not going to like it, sir," the rookie said as Lassiter reached the opening opposite him.

He glowered. "What does _that_ mean?"

The rookie pointed downward wordlessly and Lassiter looked.

* * *

Lassiter's anger dissolved into sick astonishment when he spotted Shawn at the bottom of the shaft. He was bent at the shoulders at an awkward angle, his torso and legs jutting upward and then falling back over his body like some sort of demented canopy. He looked like a discarded broken doll. The rookie's flashlight was still aimed down at him, falling mostly on his legs, but some of the light trickled between them, lighting Shawn's face, which was nearly white with just two bright spots of red on his cheeks that only made the broken doll analogy even more appropriate. His left arm was bent awkwardly, pinned between his head and the side of the duct. It looked…wrong, and Lassiter thought it must be broken.

He almost missed it, but there was a dark, disturbingly large pool of blood beneath the psychic that nearly coated the bottom of the duct. Shawn had at least mentioned that he was bleeding, but _that_ was not what he had been expecting to find. The warm, metallic scent of it wafted up from below and Lassiter grimaced as his stomach turned.

He was scanning the rest of Shawn's body as best he could to make sure he hadn't lied about anything else important when he noticed the way his chest rose jerkily just a fraction of an inch and then fell in the same manner. It created a hitched, strange, almost half-drowning sound every time Spencer inhaled and he suddenly understood exactly why Mr. Guster had been so unnerved by what he had been hearing. He realized with a jolt of horror that Shawn's body weight was essentially suffocating him.

His expression blackened as he looked back at Shawn's face and was met with a weak grin.

"Hey—" _Gasp_. "—Lassie."

"Spencer, you idiot!" he snarled, "Why didn't you tell us about—about _this?!_"

Shawn looked bemused. "Didn't—" _Gasp_. "—I?"

Lassiter's eyes narrowed and he grit his teeth. It was so damn convenient that he had a concussion _now_ of all times. "I suppose," he growled and then his eyebrows dropped in confusion as he watched Shawn straighten out his legs, his face caught between a grimace and trying to disguise the expression. "What are you—" Shawn closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply, tiny winces flickering across his face as he inhaled a few times and then he opened them again, letting his legs fall back down and Lassiter stared, mouth open in shock.

He was relieving the pressure so he could breathe.

His phone rang, loudly in the small space, and he pulled it off his belt, disturbed by his most recent discovery.

"That's not mine!" Shawn called and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He flipped the phone open with one hand. "Lassiter."

"It's Gus. I hung up on Shawn, he wasn't talking to me anymore, so I didn't see the point. I assume you guys found him?"

Lassiter nodded, looking grimly down at the crumpled figure at the bottom of the ventilation shaft. "We found him all right." He noticed that Shawn still had the phone clutched in his right hand, hanging precariously near his ear and he sighed. "Spencer!" he called, "Put your phone away!"

Shawn looked surprised and he lifted the phone so that he could see it. "When did I get it out?" he asked bewilderedly.

"A little while ago. Just put it away," Lassiter directed, and he was disconcerted by the fact that Shawn obeyed him without protesting.

"So will he be out soon?" Gus asked and Lassiter made a face.

"I don't think so."

Gus' voice frowned. "Why? What's the matter?"

"It's just going to be a little more difficult than we initially anticipated," he said.

"What exactly does that mean, Detective?" Gus asked, his tone no-nonsense.

Lassiter heaved an exasperated sigh. "He's upside down."

Gus' reply was delayed. "…Upside down?"

"Yes, as in, his head is on the bottom and his feet are on top."

"Of course he is," Gus mumbled wearily. "All right. Call me if I can do anything."

"I will," he promised and started dialing O'Hara's number as Gus hung up. He glanced back down the ventilation shaft and tried not to grimace at the pathetic picture Spencer currently made. "We're going to get you out, Spencer, just sit tight."

"If I were sitting, I would."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and wondered vaguely if Spencer could possibly be faking the whole concussion thing.

"O'Hara," Juliet answered.

"It's me," he said. "We found him."

"Oh, really? That's great," she said. "I think I might be close. I just passed this off-shoot and I could hear Shawn's voice pretty well, so I'm following it right—" She gasped suddenly and Lassiter frowned.

"O'Hara? What happened? O'Hara!"

"I found him…" she said quietly, and then, "Oh, _Shawn_…"

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

ZOMJ CLIFFIE!

...not really. But it masquerades as one pretty well, eh? XDDDD


	4. Coming to Terms

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

XDDDDDDDDDD New chappie chap chap chap. Enjoy guys:D

* * *

Juliet had come upon the grating that the top of Shawn's head pressed up against between the two sections of the ventilation system. The first thing she saw was the seemingly enormous darkened pool of blood that was seeping through the grating from underneath his head, followed by the matted mess of hair on the crown of his head, pushed up against the grating. She could see the sharp angle of his body only up to his rib cage, but she didn't need to see anymore to know how awful a position it was. He was breathing with considerable difficulty too, which only made her heart go out to him more. She started to put her flashlight down and something glinted brightly beside Shawn's head. She frowned and turned the flashlight on it. Her jaw dropped in horror at what the light revealed.

The glint she had seen was the light reflecting off of the snow white bone jutting out of Shawn's pinned left arm. Blood oozed heavily from the wound and she suddenly understood why there was so much of it at the bottom of the shaft. "Oh my gosh…" she whispered, aghast.

"Jules?" Shawn said uncertainly.

"Yes, I'm here, Shawn," she said, moving up closer to the grating, diverting her eyes from the gory mess that was his arm. The smell of his blood was almost overpowering.

He started to tip his head backwards, trying to see her, and hissed as a sharp pain shot up his neck.

"No, no, oh, don't _move_ Shawn," she said.

"Ow," he whispered, voice strained.

"_O'Hara_," Lassiter said forcefully, and finally got her attention again. "You're down there with him then?"

"Yes," she said and then very softly, "Does he look just as bad from up there?"

"Yes," Lassiter replied grimly. "He can still move his legs though, so I suppose that's a good sign. It looks like he may have broken his arm."

Juliet nodded, glancing at the arm, her stomach turning. "It's definitely broken," she said.

"What's broken?" Shawn asked. "Are you talking about me?"

"I take it it's not good," Lassiter said severely.

Juliet swallowed. "He snapped it in half. The bones are sticking out, at least a couple of inches."

"Jules! Are you talking about _my_ bones?" Shawn demanded and gasped as he shifted, the grating pulling at the wound on his head, his neck searing with pain.

She winced, and said, "Shhh, Shawn, just lie still, okay? Don't worry about it." Then to Lassiter she said quietly, "I don't think he can feel it. He must have pinched a nerve or something. How are we going to do this?"

"Stay with him, O'Hara. Keep him talking and try to keep him from moving, if you can. He straightens out his legs every so often so he can breathe better, so let me know if he ever stops doing that, or if he passes out. We'll drag him out by his feet if we have to. I'm going to call downtown and get blueprints and a crew down here so we can get him out ASAP. Is there any way to get him out down there?" he asked suddenly.

"No, there's a grating here, and from what I can tell, it's bolted in on the outside. We'd have to take the whole thing apart," she said, inspecting the inside of the shaft carefully, attempting to ignore the sound of Shawn's increasingly difficult breathing.

"All right, I'll keep in touch," he said, "Just stay and watch him."

"No problem," she said and tucked the phone away when he hung up.

"Were you talking about me, Jules? What's wrong with my arm?" Shawn asked determinedly.

She sighed. "You've broken it, Shawn."

He was quiet for a second. "Really? It doesn't hurt."

"I gathered as much," she said.

"Who were you telling?"

"Lassiter."

"Oh," Shawn said and pointed upward with his good arm. "He was up there before. He bailed. I irritated him, I think."

"Oh, no, Shawn. He's just trying to get you out of here."

Shawn sounded amused when he spoke again, but Juliet didn't miss the veiled anxiety in his voice. "I mucked this one up pretty bad, eh, Jules?"

She smiled, almost sadly, and said, "You tend to do that."

He tried to shrug and then badly concealed a whimper of pain. "It's what I'm good at," he managed. "That and finding things."

* * *

"Look what I found, sir!"

Lassiter jerked backwards as an evidence baggy was brandished in his face while he was trying to climb out of the duct system. He glowered, dropping to the floor and the rookie recoiled a little. "What is it?" he snapped impatiently.

"The bonds, sir! I came across them while looking for Spencer, sir!" he exclaimed proudly.

Lassiter stared for a moment. He had forgotten that was the reason they were here in the first place. Damn Spencer and whatever it was that led him to these things! "Oh. Good work," he said shortly and the poor rookie deflated as Lassiter strode down the hall past him.

"Everybody listen up! We are now tacking 'and rescue' to the search we just started." He began pointing to various officers. "You—radio the paramedics. You—get the fire department here with all the extraction tools they've got, five minutes ago. You—get me the blueprints for this damn building. I don't care how you get them, just get them—and you, radio the Chief and tell her what's going on. You two can go drop the evidence off downtown and get the ball rolling, I trust?" He glowered and the two officers nodded.

"Yes, sir."

For a split second, no one moved and Lassiter barked, "What are you waiting for—an invitation?!" The room immediately burst into activity.

Gus sidled up to Lassiter, who didn't notice him until he said, "So it's bad then."

Lassiter paused and couldn't help looking slightly sympathetic for the psychic's friend. "I can't be sure. We have to take all precautions."

Gus sighed, frustrated, and said, "That's not what I'm asking."

Lassiter tried not to look peeved. "He fell probably eight feet on to his head, Mr. Guster. It looks like he put his arm out to break his fall and he snapped it in two—the bone broke the skin. He's got a concussion, a head wound, and he's upside down, so his weight is slowly crushing his lungs. He can still move his legs, but he still could have broken something in his neck. If he hasn't done anything _else_ to himself, that's all of it."

Gus exhaled once, sharply, and said genuinely, "Thank you."

Lassiter was surprised. "What for?"

"I know it sounds stupid, but knowing exactly what's wrong helps. I've spent a lot of time in hospitals with Shawn, and I always feel better knowing the full implications rather than being kept in the dark. Less nasty shocks in a friendship where there are already way too many. So thank you," he said again and this time Lassiter nodded. He obviously wasn't giving Gus enough credit in the 'guts' department.

"He'll be fine," he said quietly and Gus smiled.

"I know."

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

AWWWWWWWWWZ. XDD


	5. Taking Stock

"So what are we dealing with?"

The fire chief, half a dozen of his men, four paramedics, a gurney, the dozen officers who were there initially, and Gus stood crammed into the fourth floor hallway in a quasi-circular shape around Lassiter, looking expectantly to him for instruction. It was sort of empowering.

He leveled his gaze with the fire chief's and said, "We have a man trapped in the ventilation shafts." He held up the blue prints which he had marked with the path Shawn had taken, a large shaded white square over the duct where he was located. "He fell eight feet and landed here, just between floors, upside down."

One of the firemen looked incredulous. "Upside down?"

Lassiter nodded curtly. "Upside down. He fell headfirst down the shaft, apparently put out his arm to stop the fall and broke it. My junior detective tells me the bone broke the skin." Everyone grimaced.

"Compound fracture," one of the paramedics murmured.

"He also has a concussion and some sort of head wound. O'Hara says there's too much matted into his hair to see exactly what it looks like."

"So we're definitely dealing with a potential neck injury," a blonde paramedic said.

Lassiter nodded. "Yes, in the position he is, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

"We'll have to be really careful that he isn't moved unnecessarily," the other paramedic said.

"We need to work quickly too," Lassiter continued, "He's having trouble breathing because all of his body weight is pressing down on his lungs."

"Well, then let's get to work," the fire chief said. "Have you got a plan for us, or—"

Lassiter quieted him by pointing to a spot on the ceiling just overhead. "I'm standing approximately underneath the duct where Spencer is located. Since we can't remove him by simply pulling him out by his feet because of the potential for injury to his spine, I figured coming in through either the side or bottom of the duct, depending on which is more practical, would be the best course of action. I have two officers posted at the top of the shaft to yank him out, should he pass out or find himself unable to lift his legs to breathe. That's our last option though. So," he concluded, "We need to remove this ceiling."

The fire chief looked pleased. "All right, boys, you heard the detective, get to work!"

* * *

Juliet couldn't help it. She couldn't look at Shawn for very long. It made her feel helpless, which she disliked, especially because Shawn was in so much pain. It also turned her stomach, which bothered her even more, because she was a homicide detective for heaven's sake and she should be able to handle a little bit of blood and bone. She shook her head and looked determinedly through the grating. "How are you doing, Shawn?" she asked softly as he lowered his legs again after taking a few deep breaths.

"Tired," he said, and she could tell it was already getting hard for him to breathe again.

She hated saying it, but knew it had to be said. "You can't sleep, Shawn."

"I know, Jules," he said, tone slightly annoyed. "Trust me, the crick in my neck is keeping Mr. Sandman firmly at bay."

She grimaced and was wondering how to reply to that when her phone rang, making both of them flinch and she pulled it out. "O'Hara."

"Hey. The fire and rescue guys are here, they're busting into the ceiling now," Lassiter said, loudly, and she could hear the racket as they began tearing into the ceiling below them.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said softly, eyeing the back of Shawn's head.

"Is he all right?" Lassiter asked, her tone of voice raising his concern.

"He's getting tired," she replied, "And he's having so much trouble breathing, I, for one, will just be really glad when he's out of here."

"They all understand, so hopefully soon," Lassiter said.

"Okay," Juliet said. "Thanks." She hung up and turned back to Shawn. "Hey, they're going to get you out of here soon, Shawn."

"Aw, and I was just starting to feel at home."

Juliet smiled. Well, you couldn't say he didn't have an indomitable sense of humor.

* * *

Lassiter stepped out of the way as the firemen working to open up the ceiling dropped one last large piece to the ground, exposing the ducts in the ceiling, and sighed imperceptibly. Finally they were getting somewhere. They all edged closer, peering up at the shafts and the fireman at the top of the ladder (Charlie, the chief kept calling him) leaned forward, inspecting the metal. There was a dent in the bottom of the shaft that rose upward into the ceiling, and a bit of blood was seeping through the seam created by the grating and the duct.

"O'Hara?" Lassiter called, and her face appeared behind the vent a few feet down.

"Yes?"

"How big is that pool of blood now?" he asked and she looked worried.

"Pretty big. I had to move back."

"So we're going to be showering in blood if we're not careful, is what you're saying," Charlie said.

"Possibly," she said and grimaced.

They all turned back to continue scrutinizing the ventilation shaft and Gus stepped under the vent to talk to Juliet. After a moment, Charlie said, "All right, so here are our options. We can cut into the shaft up there above him and then take out the wall after we get a better fix on his position. We could also take out a piece of that shaft—" He pointed to the horizontal shaft Juliet resided in. "—and then remove the grating and pull him out that way. Or, we can take out this bottom part of the shaft, which is a separate piece, and lower him out there. Thoughts?"

"We can't pull him out through the grating," one of the female paramedics said. "There's way too much risk of damaging his spinal cord."

"Okay, fair enough," Charlie said. "How about our other options?"

Lassiter shook his head. "He's crammed in there pretty tightly. I don't think you can cut into the walls of the shaft without risking injuring him further."

Charlie smiled humorlessly and said, "Human elevator it is then."


	6. Problem Solved

"All right, we're going to need every ladder we can get. You four," the fire chief said, pointing to the two officers and two firemen nearest him. "Go. Four more minimum!" They had already headed off down the hall before he had finished the order.

"Chief," Charlie called, "I want to loosen a few of these bolts and see if we can't drain a little of this blood out."

"Here," the brunette medic said, holding out a case. "It's a portable aspirator. There's a pump you can use to suction the blood up with."

"Hold it," Lassiter said as the fireman reached for it. "Let's give it to O'Hara, she'll have better access." The others nodded in agreement and Lassiter took the aspirator, calling Juliet's name. "Can you kick the vent cover out?" he asked when she appeared at the vent.

"Look out," she warned and they all stepped back. Two firm kicks later, the cover crashed to the floor and she peered down at them. "What's this?" she asked as Lassiter handed the aspirator up.

"It has a pump in it. We want you to try and get rid of as much of the blood as you can," he said.

"Oh," she said, looking pleased. "Sure, no problem." She disappeared back into the shaft.

"So how is this going to work?" Lassiter asked Charlie, who was adjusting the position of his ladder.

"Well," he said, and leaned against the ladder. "With any luck we'll have five guys on ladders and they'll support—Spencer, was it?—after I unscrew the panel. We'll lower him down bit by bit and anyone who's available will just do everything they can to keep him the position he's in until the medics can tell us exactly what to do with him." He smirked. "That's the plan anyway."

Lassiter glanced up at the duct as Charlie went off to direct the officer who had returned with the first ladder. The plan indeed.

In a matter of fifteen minutes, the ladders had been located and set up in a circle beneath the vent. The firefighters clambered up them, hovering at the tops while the rest of the firefighters and several of the officers stationed themselves at the bottoms of the ladders, holding them in place and readying themselves to take over bringing Shawn down when he got low enough.

"All right, everybody ready?" the Chief said and received a resounding 'yes'. "All right, Charlie," he said and Charlie nodded. Four pairs of hands went up to support the sheet of metal, and he worked quickly, removing the bolts. The firemen grunted, straining to support Shawn's weight as the final bolt was removed and Charlie quickly handed his tools down, saying, "All right, nice and easy, guys!"

They began lowering the square of metal, inch by inch, avoiding a bit of blood as it trickled out. They froze when Shawn let out a strangled yelp, Juliet crying, "Wait, stop, _stop!_ He's stuck!" His hair was practically glued to the grating because of the dried blood matted in it. Juliet grimaced, sticking her fingers through the spaces in the grating and whispering, "I'm sorry, Shawn," as she began yanking tufts of his hair away from the metal. He hissed, his good hand moving back to swat feebly at her fingers.

"Jules…!" he said, voice pathetic, and she pulled hard, freeing the last bit.

"Sorry," she whispered again and then said loudly, "Okay, keep going!"

They started lowering him down again, trying to ignore Shawn's stifled moans as his head scraped along the inside of the duct, and Charlie barked, "Someone's got to get his head!"

As one of the free officers grabbed a wad of gauze from a paramedic, hurrying up the back of one of the ladders to press it to Shawn's head, Gus moved beneath the vent and reached up as Juliet slipped out feet first, grabbing hold of her and gently lowering her to the ground. She thanked him and they both turned, moving quickly toward the circle of ladders as Shawn cried out, the officer pressing as hard as he could against the bloody spot on his head to keep him from moving and falling off. There were several gasps as his broken arm finally fell free, dropping limply to the side, blood dried in streaks all along it, the protruding bone only slightly whiter than his skin. Lassiter winced and he barked, "Careful with that arm!"

"Oh my gosh," Gus whispered, and looked away for a second, swallowing hard, Juliet's supportive hand on his arm.

Charlie pressed his hands to Shawn's back as soon as there was room to fit his hands, and he and the officer pushing against his head tried valiantly to keep Shawn in the position he was coming out in. They continued inching him downward and the officers at the bottom took over supporting the him as soon as the sheet of metal had come within reach of their fingertips. The firefighters on top began reaching upward again, finding places to grasp his body, holding him vigilantly in place.

"Jules…" Shawn mumbled, "'M light headed…don't feel good."

She moved forward, grabbing his good hand through the throng of officers and firemen, still carefully lowering him, and said soothingly, "It's okay, Shawn, just hold on a few more minutes. Breathe nice and slow."

He nodded once, winced, and then took as deep a breath as he could manage, squeezing her fingers.

"Okay!" one of the paramedics yelled as he reached a height where they were no longer straining upward to hold him, "Go ahead and start laying him out, _slowly!_"

They did as she ordered, the top men slowly and carefully handing Shawn's legs down. He moaned, his stomach starting to protest. "Stop moving…" he pleaded, swallowing hard, and Juliet put a gentle hand on his forehead.

"Just a little more, Shawn."

He shook his head as several of the ladders were pulled out of the way and one of the medics approached, neck brace in hand. He moaned, nearly crushing Juliet's hand in his grip, trying to curl up in an attempt to stem the nausea, but the men holding him up carefully restrained him. "Let me go, please…" he mumbled and then clamped his mouth shut as his stomach gave a particularly strong heave.

"Turn him!" the medic barked, "Keep his spine aligned!" They did as ordered, and Shawn moaned again as everything spun, his ears ringing and making the queasiness even worse. The paramedic waved at the men on the side by his face. "Get away!" They backed away hastily, all except for Juliet, who stood stalwartly near his waist, his hand still in hers. Charlie moved forward, bucket in hand, as the medic snapped the neck brace around Shawn's neck, pushing the bloody sheet of metal away, just as Shawn's stomach could no longer be denied. He heaved, violently, into the bucket, and the officers and firemen holding him grimaced sympathetically as his stomach emptied itself, only exacerbating the pain in his neck and shoulders. He dry heaved for several seconds before the spasms finally began to fade and he gagged, coughing weakly and trembling from head to toe.

Juliet wiped his mouth with a piece of gauze handed to her by one of the medics, pressing a cool hand to his cheek. He grimaced as they turned him onto his back again, the paramedic calling for the gurney. He still felt obscenely lightheaded and knew that probably wasn't a good sign. On the up-side, he could breathe again. He suddenly realized his legs were burning, prickling viciously. It was the gone-to-sleep feeling, only times a thousand. "My legs…" he mumbled as they were strapping him down and they all froze.

"What do you mean, Shawn?" Gus asked worriedly from his side. Shawn blinked. He hadn't noticed him there before.

"Needles," he explained and they all let out heavy sighs of relief, Gus putting a hand to the gurney to support his suddenly weak-kneed legs.

"Can you breathe okay?" the brunette paramedic asked, but Shawn was oblivious, distracted by his broken arm in the hands of the blonde medic.

"Wow," he commented, "I didn't know my arm bent that way. Cool. Can I keep it for Halloween?"

There was a round of halfhearted laughter and Gus rolled his eyes, and, trying to sound annoyed and just sounding very, very relieved, said, "_Hell_, no."

The female paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over Shawn's head, saying, "As a precaution," but he was gone before she had finished the statement, his lightheadedness finally overwhelming him.

**Chapter End Notes:**

Free! Free at last! XDDDD lol One more chapter to go guys! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did:D


	7. Wrapping Things Up

"…that sound, you know, in horror movies, where it makes that really nasty sounding crack? Yeah. That's _exactly_ what it sounded like. Then everything went black." The crowd around Shawn gasped sympathetically and he shrugged in faux-modesty. "When I woke up, I couldn't remember what had happened. All I knew was that my head and neck were killing me, and when I pushed the buttons on my phone, I could look up at my kneecaps..."

The fake psychic leaned against one of the desks in the Santa Barbara police station, surrounded by ten or fifteen various officers of the law, all listening avidly as he recounted his harrowing experience in the ventilation shaft, evidenced by the bandaging both on his head and inside the brightly colored sling supporting his left arm.

Across the room, Juliet, Lassiter, and Gus watched on with part exasperated, part annoyed, and part amused looks, the emotions taking up varying percentages of each of their persons.

"So I see he's got his memory back," Lassiter said dryly, leaning against a nearby pillar.

Gus rolled his eyes, arms crossed casually in front of his chest. "You know, I'm not honestly sure. Whether he has or not, he'd still be making it out to be the most traumatic thing he's ever been through."

Juliet laughed. "Drama king." Her voice was warm with affection.

"I still can't believe he didn't break his neck," Lassiter said, shaking his head. "By all rights, he should be dead."

"You'd be surprised what you can live through," Gus replied.

"Sounds like you have a lot of interesting stories to tell," Juliet said, voice colored with amusement.

Gus rolled his eyes again. "Enough to fill a novel or two. There are three rules you have to obey when operating as Shawn's friend: Never let him lead you blindly, never take a dare from him, and if he says it's a flawless plan, that nothing could go wrong—everything will. Trust me, I have the scars to prove it. I've always had trouble with the rules."

Both detectives' eyebrows rose and they turned to look at the psychic still animatedly describing his ordeal. "Idiot," Lassiter muttered.

Shawn's exuberant storytelling had dragged his injured arm into the mix and the three of them didn't miss the almost imperceptible winces every time he jerked it a little too far. "…by then, my legs are going numb and I…"

With a dramatic sigh, Lassiter said loudly, "All of that could have been avoided if you hadn't gone wandering off on your own without any light in the ventilation shafts, Spencer."

Shawn grinned and looked up, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Yeah, but then you wouldn't have gotten that awesome rescue scene, Lassie."

"I also wouldn't have had to write a five page report detailing the reasons for calling off a search just to get the fire department, paramedics, city records, and my men involved in 'rescuing' you from the very building you're supposed to be helping us search," he retorted.

Shawn glanced around at his audience and said, "Let's have a round for the detective who saved me from paralysis and death, yeah! You go, Lassie!"

Lassiter rolled his eyes at the applause that followed at Shawn's bidding and said, "Shut up you idiot."

Gus stepped forward and held out a hand, two pills cupped in his palm. "Here. Take these."

Shawn sighed, but held out his hand obediently, accepting the pills. "Now I can be like House, in the non-limp phase." He grinned and tossed his head back, tipping the pills into his mouth.

Gus held out a water bottle. "Here."

Shawn pouted. "House doesn't take them with water."

"Drink the water, Shawn," Gus said irritably and again, Shawn accepted what was held out for him.

"Jeez, I can't do a thing for myself apparently."

"You can't, Spencer," Lassiter said. "You proved that the other day by falling on your head."

"You're like a walking accident—no, a walking _incident_ waiting to happen," Juliet said.

Shawn made a sound of protest as his listeners began to drift away and he cried, "Wait, guys! I'm getting to the best part!"

"Give it a rest, Spencer," Lassiter said. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be doing that somewhere?"

"Rest, shmest. I'm fine," he said off-handedly.

"Get up," Gus ordered, "You're going home."

"_Gus_—" Shawn started and was cut off with a glare from all three.

"Go home, Shawn," Juliet said. "You're still recovering from the concussion."

Shawn made a fuss, whining and protesting, but allowed himself to be forced to his feet and led in the direction of the station entrance. "I'll come back!" he called, "I'll come back with the rest of my story!"

"Yeah, yeah," Lassiter called.

"Take it easy!" Juliet instructed.

He stifled a yawn as he and Gus cut through the lobby and smiled to himself as he shifted just a little more of his weight on to Gus' shoulder. "I'm thinking Smirnoff," he announced, and as Gus snorted, behind them, Lassiter and Juliet shook their heads.

Funny how a (fake) psychic could make even police work more interesting.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

_weeps_ It's over. Well, guys...it was a fun ride. XD I hope you all enjoyed the shameless Shawn whumpage. :D

I have a couple of one-shots coming up (just for those of you who are curious) which I'm hoping will serve as time-taker-uppers until I have one of the stories I'm working on completed and ready for postage. Hopefully that will be soon. :)

Anyway. Thanks for all your fantastic reviews and POST STUFF GUYS! I want to read stuff! cries, whines, grovels


End file.
